


life in his hands (the highest fall)

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Crime, Drama, M/M, Street Racing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:31:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7538200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a sunset, a summer, a shiver that simmers into a smile -</p><p>- or, medical student Kuroo Tetsurou falls in love with neighbourhood busker Bokuto Koutarou but first impressions are rose gold and happiness comes at a price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	life in his hands (the highest fall)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [medeadea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/medeadea/gifts).



> Hello! Thank you for this amazing prompt, I'm really happy that you're my giftee for (redacted) reasons :D :D :D. I took it as a challenge to max out the angst factor /and/ deliver a happy ending ahahahaha was it a mistake we shall see. I tried my best to deliver a lot of the things you asked for and honestly had heaps of fun brainstorming :D! I hope you enjoy reading and I wish you the best for the rest of 2016 <3
> 
> (I'm so sorry this is still incomplete I am a Bad Person™. When I'm done, I'll break this up as a twoshot. The projected wordcount is 10k+ and final publication date August 12)

“Be careful with that one,” Semi had said, peering pensively at Bokuto’s back as he left. The noise of his car seemed to overtake the space where he once stood, laughing in their company and sharing in their jokes. Semi had been mostly silent towards the end of their conversation, as if conversation became secondary to observation. Back then, Kuroo had only laughed and promised to be as careful, as careful as a boy passionately in love with fire anyway. He remembers texting Bokuto after, promising _tomorrows_ and _Fridays_ and _Saturdays_ and all the nights after.

Semi had been right. Looking back, Kuroo could discern with acute clarity all the warning signs, all the flashing neon arrows pointing downwards, spiralling darker and darker into the hurricane that is Bokuto Koutarou. But only hindsight is 20/20 and foresight is always blind. When he thinks back to those years, Kuroo’s is gripped with the beating of his own heart, the screech of tires in tumult and the image of the widest grin in the northern hemisphere

 

 

* * *

 

 

_5 years earlier_

 

“So I hear you like someone.”

“What?” Kuroo splutters, whipping his head to squint at the speaker. Sugawara grins down at him, head cocked, one hand on his backpack. “Who did you hear that from?”

The lecture hall is just beginning to fill. Kuroo winces at the noise of his own reaction. Sugawara’s only reply was a mischievous shrug that spoke louder and accused more. Sliding down in seat next to him, he shifted comfortably, taking his time.

“Well,” Sugawara huffs, “I heard from Oikawa who’s in the same literature class as your roommate who said that you were moping.”

“What.” _Semi that traitor._ Kuroo immediately dons his best poker face, before calmly holding out a poised finger “One, _Oikawa_ , so down goes the reliability of that information. _Two,_ I don’t mope. _Three_ , no, I don’t like anyone.”

They had both studied patient psychology last year, learning how to recognise defensive language of a person trying to minimise their cognitive dissonance through lying. They also mastered all the ways to outmanoeuvre patients with kind nods and words of affirmation.

“Sure, sure” Sugawara throws him a glance, a knowing glance heavy with conspiracy and promise to corner him later. Kuroo knows he has lost this round. “So are you ready for this test.”

“What test?” Kuroo looks at him in horror, dropping the pen he was holding.

Sugawara’s face immediately morphs into worry, “On the gastrointestinal system, about how enzymes help proteins turn into amino acids and then goes into the blood stream via - “ he breaks off when he sees that Kuroo’s grinning, lip curling lazily. “You lying bastard.”

“I’m wounded. Your faith in me is so weak. I’m always prepared.” He strokes the textbook in front of him for emphasis.

Sugawara punches him.

“Now I am actually wounded.”

“Don’t make me punch you again.”

“Alright, alright. So are _you_ ready for this test.”

Sugawara does punch him again. Or tries to. Kuroo dodges, cackling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bokuto and him, they became friends in the way people do when their paths cross briefly but on a regular basis. The way when the other’s presence slots into his weekly schedule, like the way people who take the same morning train gradually becomes accustomed to the faces around them without ever knowing the names attached. The kind of friendship that progresses from nameless familiarity to named.

For those reasons, Kuroo cannot pinpoint the exact date at which they met for the first time. He remembers the season - it was an urgent spring that rushed too quickly into summer - and the place - the convenience store that doubled as a community centre for the elderly. He remembers that he was twenty, about to start his third year of medical school. He was friends with a Sugawara Koushi, his roommate was Semi Eita and it had been ten years since -

It had been two years since he left home. And it would be another two years until he fell in love with Bokuto Koutarou.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you remember when we first met,” Kuroo had asked once, when the world was kinder and Bokuto was just Bokuto, the guitar-plucking busker at the convenience store near _Kuramae_ Station.

Bokuto had smiled and told him _yes_ , that Kuroo was wearing a red polo shirt and shorts so white he thought the air would stain them. That it was a young afternoon and a department store assistant requested Elvis -

 

“Which song?”

“Can't help falling in love.”

“How did that one go again?” -

 _Ah_. He had asked more than once.

 

Bokuto had smiled and told and told him _yes_. That it was at the convenience store that doubled as a community centre for the elderly, an unplanned arrangement that worked out well for everyone. Kuroo was sitting on one of those short tables made of milk crates and cardboard, reading from a stack of papers that may’ve been his notes.

 

“Ah, I think it may’ve been on peristalsis and segmentation.”

“What.”

“Vomiting and gagging reflexes.”

“Duuuude, I was playing Sinatra, not cool.”

“Who that?”

“Greatest writer of love songs ever.”

“Hm.”

“You were reading about gagging while I was in soulful rapture, replicating the melodies from the classical age of -“

“It’s appropriate reaction if you’re the one playing.”

 

 

Towards the end, Bokuto had stared blankly out the car window, took a breath out of a limp cigarette and told him _no_ , he can’t remember.

 

* * *

 

 

For the first three years of university, Kuroo Tetsurou had a Schedule. He would wake up at 7am, go for a run around campus and then to the cafeteria for breakfast. Classes were at 9am and ran until 5pm. After which he would go to the library and study. Sometimes Semi brought his friend over in the evenings, the one with wild red hair. Those nights Kuroo would appropriately evacuate the premises. It was like a programmed formula. If _A_ then _B_. If he was feeling ambitious, then he would run to Ueno Park. If the professor assigned a task, then he start on it that very day. if Sugawara whined and wanted coffee, then he would buy him tea.

A Schedule.

Weekends used to be adventure days. Kuroo would take his backpack, choose a random metro line and ride until a particular station looked welcoming. After which he would wander until he found a cafe to camp out, eat lunch, and linger until the sun sank on the city.

Weekends were no longer adventure days because Kuroo would only go to Kuramae Station, follow the road right as it swerved across the colourful shopfronts, each idiosyncratically decorated from trinkets from generations past. He would make his way away from the bustling roar of the overhead motorway and walk past the elderly gentlemen playing _go_ on stone tables. He found the constant clack of smooth stone against wood soothing, and their jests endearing.

The convenience store was tiny, and was run by an old man in a Hawaiian shirt who was perennially reading Shounen Jump with one hand and scratching his bald scalp with the other. If Kuroo leant him his ear, then he would be graced with the latest tumblings of two-year old _Natsu_ or the volleyball exploits of _Shouyou_ who sounded like a super tall monster spiker.

Even though it was barely the size of Kuroo’s own room in the dormitory, it was well stocked with shelves that ran all the way to the ceiling and full refrigerators that spilled into the streets. There was always a crowd as well, sitting comfortably on the bric-a-brac of tables and chairs of various sources, chatting about the rise and fall of business assets or just watching the pedestrians past by.

But there was only one reason Kuroo stayed. After lunchtime, a young man with bleached hair set up his guitar, first tuning it with his head cocked, then when the sound pleased him, burst into the widest grin Kuroo has ever seen. He would look around, nod at faces Kuroo guessed to be familiar to him, then start play in earnest.

To be honest, the first time Kuroo heard him play, he did not notice. Only that one moment he was reading about the relaxation of the upper oesophageal sphincter and the next, words were glazing past his mind without any impression. Then he realised that he was distracted, pen stilling in his hand. When he looked up, he found that all the other patrons had paused in their conversations, and that suddenly, someone was singing.

 

_Wise men say_

_Only fools, rush in_

_But I, can’t, help_

_Falling in love,_

_With, you_

 

Kuroo lost himself in the movements of those fingers, fluttering along the frets and dancing on the strings. He seemed to play every part of any song, the melody, bass and the rhythm all in one. It was something like blues or jazz, something nostalgic that Kuroo may’ve once heard, over speakers on a late night bus or under the breath of a humming passerby. Perhaps he heard those songs before in his childhood, on one of those tapes his mother used to play while cleaning the house.

 

That was the least productive study session he had all year, but it was the happiest he’d been in a long time. And thus, he returned the following week, and the week after that, and the week after that.

 

* * *

 

“Hey.”

Kuroo looks up. It’s the busker boy. The guitar case is still open on the other end of the street, left behind. He’s currently bending over Kuroo’s table in front of the convenience store, squinting at the papers in front of him.

“What the hell is this?” His eyebrows make the most comical movements. One shoots up impossibly high while the other is pressed down close to his eye. Kuroo would laugh if he wasn’t so surprised by the intrusion. Though that feeling is quickly overtaken by awe. _He’s talking to me._

“Notes,” Kuroo replies, as calmly as possible.

“Oh you’re a student,” the busker scratches the back of his head, “No wonder there’s so many words.”

Kuroo glances down. “Yeah I study medicine. What about you?”

“That’s so cool! Me? Nah, never had a mind for it.” He zooms in on the glass refrigerators behind Kuroo, frowning.

Kuroo follows his gaze towards the row of colourful drinks. An idea zooms across his mind, a possibility. “Hey, let me buy you one - “ Kuroo’s knee jolts the table in his haste and he slams a hand down to balance it.

“You don’t have to.” The guy laughs at his predicament.

“No, no, its fine.” Kuroo manages to stand up to rummage his wallet from his back pocket. He takes a breath, “I, I really like the way you play. It’s been helping me study. So, think of it as a thank you at least. I insist.”

“Really? Awesome!” He throws the most ballistic grin at Kuroo, and for a moment, Kuroo is distracted by the wideness of it. From ear to ear and incredibly contagious. Kuroo grins back.

“Well, a can of Pocari please.”

“Coming right up.” Kuroo leans behind him to open the fridge. “Mister! How much is it for two cans?”

“240 yen.” the old man replies without even looking up from his manga.

Kuroo passes the drink to the guy while walking over to pay. The pop of the lid fizzle. When he turns around, the guy lifts the can in thanks.

“The name’s Bokuto by the way. Bokuto Koutarou.”

“Kuroo Tetsurou. Nice to meet you.”

“Hey, do you have any song requests?” Bokuto looked at him earnestly.

“I’m not sure if the songs I listen to suit your style…”

“Try me.” Bokuto leans forward, “What will it be? Mr. Children? One Ok Rock? You seem like a bit of a rocker.“

“Any song?” Kuroo cocks his head, trying to hold back a smile.

“Any.”

“Pon pon pon?”

Throwing his head back, Bokuto laughs heartily. “Can do, can do. But only if you dance?”

Kuroo strikes a pose. “Deal.”

 

* * *

 

 

Kuroo sighs, spinning his pen around his thumb. “Yes mum.” His textbook lies in front of him, half read. He scratches at a tea stain in the corner of the page. Behind him, Semi snorts from where he’s presumably lounging on his bed.

“Are you eating well?”

“Yes, very well.”

“Good, hearty breakfast? Enough protein in?”

“Yes, I eat all the beef when the cafeteria serves it. I had mackerel for breakfast. I’ve been taking care of myself,” he recites.

“That’s good.”

From outside, the revving of cars rise into the night. Minutely, he picks up the screech of tires in tumult, sharp and piercing. He motions at Semi to close the window but the guy doesn’t even look his way, casually flicking through what appears to a novel. Kuroo thinks he’s just preoccupied, and not just stubbornly ignoring him. He’ll give him the benefit of doubt.

Kuroo gets up himself, wandering to the open window. He briefly eyes the scene outside. VISUAL OF TOKYO

“Don’t stay out too late Tetsurou. I know you think you can take care of yourself but what if you’re mugged by a gang? Or caught by the yakuza?” He could hear her finger wagging through the phone. Half a memory, half a noise.

There’s silence on the line for a moment before she sighs. There’s a rustling of paper, probably his father reading the newspaper.

“Are you doing okay?”

“I’m doing really well mum. You don’t have to worry about me,” he thinks back to Bokuto and the best acoustic cover of Pon Pon Pon he has ever heard. “I’ve made new friends recently. I’m happy.”

“That’s good. You should call back more often.”

“I’ll try.”

As soon as the call’s over, Kuroo takes off his sock and throws it at Semi. A squark and a mildly vicious battle later, he returns to the work scattered on his table. Through the closed window, the wail of sirens begin to climb in.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The rest of spring passes in a blur. Kuroo is now able name most of the bones and muscles in the body, and is currently an expert in pancreatic enzymes after his research assignment.

Weekday afternoons are still library days.

Just recently, Kuroo chanced upon a new study space, an extra half-level on the top floor. A sunny room cutting into the empty air of a tall ceiling. It was only accessible via dusty stairs behind shelves that smelled of history, and thus it was never occupied by first-years or other kinds of rumbustious students. In fact, there was rarely anyone up there, sometimes a few girls. One of them had a habit of staring at him when she was thinking, but always blushed and diverted her gaze when he looked up.

The only other regular was this quiet kid who gave off an aura of impenetrability. Maybe it was the size of the textbook in front of him, like a wall. He was always reading, Kuroo never saw him do anything else. He always left after Kuroo as well. He only left early once and that time Kuroo was able to finally see the title of the book when he folded it shut. _Constitutional Law of Japan_ was the horrific title, printed on the cover like a brand.

Weekend afternoons, well are a different story.

Kuroo studies while Bokuto serenades the public with his songs. It’s still mostly older stuff, with lyrics like _love me tender_ , and _hey dude_ \- or was it _hey jude_ , but once in a while, Bokuto casts a conspiratorial snicker in Kuroo’s direction and plays more modern hits, crooning _I want you!~ I need you!~ I love you!~_ until the store owner throws empty cans of beer at him. Sometimes passing girls stop and giggle, getting out their phones for a short video. During those moments, Bokuto grin, strumming a bit more passionately and smiling in that care-free way that locks Kuroo’s heart in a sting of happiness.

When the guitar is packed away, Kuroo buys two bottles straight from the refrigerator and they sit, side by side as the sunset melts over Tokyo, chatting and laughing over meaningless things. When Bokuto speaks, he does so with his entire body. When he grins, both his cheeks and his heels lift. When he yells, his arms accompany the movement of his eyebrows upwards. When he laughs, his hand is slapping the expanse of Kuroo’s back and all Kuroo feels in the moments after is the lingering handprint, spreading across his back.

Like this, spring rushes into summer and weekend exploits overflow into weekdays. In those sweltering days they drink beer so fizzy every gulp is half foam. When he talks, Bokuto holds the ice-cold glass against his cheeks, free hand gesticulating into life stories of people he’d seen and places he’s been. Two beers turn into four, and convenience store conversations rotate to the park, the riverside when cherry blossoms are in full bloom, the hill that overlooks the train tracks, the carcass of an old church about to be demolished, the empty high schools between graduation and orientation, the abandoned apartments with traces of their old occupants, the world.

The summer after his second year was golden. In those days, it seemed like his joy was so bright he could only see Bokuto, the movement of his arms and the smile across his cheeks.

And then Bokuto disappears.

 

 

* * *

 

 

One day he was there and the next he simply wasn’t.

Kuroo waits at the convenience store, waits expectantly, eyes glancing at the passing pedestrians, at the distance where a shock of bleached hair would certainly appear at any moment. Then he picks up an edition of Shounen Jump so old the ink bleeds into his fingertips. When he finishes, he reaches for the next volume but only finds the one from two weeks later. When he gets up, the tendons in his back stretch achingly. He cracks a shoulder.

“Don’t bother waiting for him.”

“Hm?” Kuroo looks up. It’s the store owner, peering at him over his own copy of Jump. “What do you mean?”

“You’re waiting for Bokuto aren’t you.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t bother. That punk comes and goes.”

“What do you mean?”

The man scratches the back of his scalp where tuffs of hair still cling on like survivors of a war. “He has other stuff going on other than busking. And he has his moods y’know.”

“Moods?”

“I know he’s all buddy buddy with you and all, but he’s not always like that. I’ve known him for years and sometimes he’s just…. different. It’s hard to say. Anyway. Don’t bother waiting, he’ll be back when he’ll be back.”

"Has he done this before? Disappearing?"

"Plenty, don't think too much about it. Everyone has their own lives see."

“Okay,” Kuroo frowns, thinking over the information. “But I’ll come back. Your store is my favourite place in Tokyo.”

“No use sweet talking me boy. I’ve eaten more salt than you’ve eaten rice.”

Kuroo laughs and waves, “Worth a try. Us students need all the discounts we can get.”

The man snorts, then raises his hand as if about to send Kuroo off. He pauses. “Hey, one more thing,” the man looks thoughtful, “You’re a good kid so I want to warn you. Bokuto’s not the kind of guy I want my grandchildren hanging ‘round.”

Kuroo blinks. “Huh. Why?”

“But you’re smarter than my grandkids.” He looks back down at his manga, ignoring the question. “Ah don’t get yourself into trouble now, shoo, shoo.”

 

* * *

 

“Why did you tell Oikawa I was moping?”

Semi looks up from his book. “Huh. Who’s Oikawa?”

“You don’t know who Oikawa is?”

“I really don’t.”

“Your lit class. Loud. Flirts with all the girls.” _Great hair_ \- he wanted to add, but that was a sore point for him.

“Oh.” Semi scrunches his face. For someone who looks perpetually angry all the time, it somehow made him look even more so, like someone had distastefully farted in his proximity. “Him. I never told him.”

“What? But Oikawa told Sugawara who badgered me for a week.”

“Hm. I remember telling Ennoshita that my roommate was in the dumps. Oikawa probably overheard.”

“That son of a…” Kuroo covered his face with a palm. “I wasn’t in the dumps.”

“Yes you were. Is this about your new bae?” Semi puts his book down. Inside was a black and white photo of two corpses next to a river. They were on top of one another and a small crowd was gathering in the corner. Kuroo looks away. _Liberal Arts kids._

“What do you mean by bae.” Kuroo frowns, “Also why you talk like a thug when you study literature.”

“You act like you just got rejected. You were so happy during summer too. Life was so peaceful.”

“I do not.”

“Yes you do. If I got 100 yen for every time you sighed I would be able to pay rent forever.” Semi picks up his book again. “Also, if I so desired to enunciate my words in the likeness of our great masters I would do so. But alas I am a modern child and thus I do not give a fuck.”

Kuroo crosses his arms, “You’re a pretentious literature major. Can’t you act the part.”

Semi throws him a Face. “People are more than what they look like. You should know that as well as anyone. Take Tendou. Looks like drug lord, cuddles like a cat.”

“Too much information.” Kuroo thinks of Sugawara, compares the lightness of his smile to the strength of his punches. “Okay. But you? Why literature?”

“Why medicine? People think you’re juggling three girlfriends and a wife back home.”

“ _What_.”

“I’m exaggerating. It’s only two. And that you’re a heartbreaker.” Semi casually turns a page. “But my point stands. Here we have the real Kuroo Tetsurou who has never taken a girl out on a date and obediently evacuates his own room without being asked when my boyfriend comes over.”

“I’m burning Eita-kun. Is this your true nature?”

“Yes. Congratulations, you have unlocked level 2 of my friendship.”

Kuroo throws him the finger as he flops into bed. When he begins to drift into sleep, he thinks of Bokuto, his bright smile, the hands dancing along his guitar, and the warning from the shop owner.

 

* * *

 

Bokuto returns on a sweltering Sunday when all Tokyo seems to slow to a still, as if even the city itself was too lethargic to move. Kuroo’s downing his 3rd can of chilled Pocari over diagrams of thyroid cells when a shadow falls over him. It’s Bokuto, but he’s different. He’s wearing a shirt decorated with myriad of wrinkles, as if it had just been worn for the first time in months. There’s circles beneath his eyes and something dark staining the edges of his hair. The guitar is no where in sight. He seems impatient, jittery, eyes darting from Kuroo to elsewhere.

“Hey,” Kuroo offers, voice straining to be neutral. He does not ask the omnipresent, _Where have you been?_. “Want to sit down for a drink?”

“Nah,” Bokuto shrugs, “You doing anything tonight?”

Kuroo counts the pages left in his readings, four. He can read them when he gets home. “Nope.”

“Come on, lets go for a drive.” Bokuto cocks his head.

“Where?”

“Places, you’ll see.” The corner of his lip lift upwards, “Just a drive.”

“…. Sure?”

“Awesome!” Suddenly, the gloomy Bokuto was gone. There was the wide smile, eyebrows, the dancing hands curling around his wrist, “Let’s go! We are going to have so much fun!”

He feels the stare of the shop-keeper, studying him as he leaves.

This was the first of three bad decisions. In retrospect, Kuroo sees all the warning signs, spread out before him like the labels on a chemical. But at the time, all he saw was the smile.

 

* * *

 

As soon as he starts driving, Bokuto flicks out a packet of cigarette from the inside of his jacket. “Want one?”

Kuroo frowned, “No thanks.” He thinks of carbon monoxide and reduced lung function and artery damage.

He watches as Bokuto pulls one out with his teeth. He tucks the packet back into his jacket and pulls out a lighter. The flame briefly lines his cheeks with gold. Taking a long drag, he closes his eyes before exhaling. Kuroo watches the smoke rise gracefully, pressing itself against the car roof before dissipating into nothingness.

They drive until the city falls back behind them and residential apartments melt into houses, and before long even those are replaced with expanses of grass and empty plots. Kuroo keeps his eyes outside, eyes attaching to the road signs, the street names. He allows the silence to sweep over their company. There were many cars going into the city, perhaps families return from day trips out, but the cars driving in their direction was few. Kuroo shifts in his seat, wondering if he should text Semi.

Another car joins them once they hit the highway. Then another, and another. By this stage Kuroo’s mind is whirring. Bokuto seamlessly weaves between a blue car so short it seemed to flatten itself against the asphalt, and a silver sedan with Hello Kitty spray painted across the hood. An engine revs. Someone honks.

Bokuto pulls down his window and sticks out his head, hooting loudly.

He receives a long honk in reply and he settles back in his seat, throwing his head back in laughter. He runs his fingers through his head and turns to Kuroo, eyes bright and glistening with something foreign - no, something familiar, but more alight than anything he’s seen before.

Warmth bubbles up in Kuroo’s chest. He’s fascinated. He wants to be part of this, what ever this is. Bokuto is a magnet, and wherever he goes, Kuroo wanted to follow, trace the path of his laughter and bask in his happiness until fate rips them apart. Bokuto’s a bonfire and Kuroo, in that moment, is a moth drawn to the flame.

“Do you have your seatbelt on?”

“Yeah.”

“When was the last time you called your mum?”

“Um, yesterday?”

“Good,” the old Bokuto is back, mischievous and young and bold and golden.

The sound of all the car engines around them roars into the sky like a pack of wolves. A shiver runs down Kuroo’s spine.

In front of them is a long stretch of road. Bokuto licks his lips. Then floors the accelerator.

Kuroo jerks backwards seatbelt dragging into his nape.

Bokuto’s laugh pierces the air, “Hang on bro.” He looks behind him with the swiftest turn, then jerks the wheel to the right, cutting off a white Honda and brushing by the tail of another by millimetres, tires squealing. Bokuto pushes the car forwards, slides into the next gear seamlessly. The smell of gas pulsates through the open window, demanding, pushing the blood through Kuroo’s veins. He could feel the pounding of his heart in the tips of his fingers as he clutches for his dear life. There’s two more cars in front, their tail lights flashing in challenge. Bokuto’s grin stretches so wide Kuroo could see his canines, like a predator before the hunt.

The car hums under Bokuto’s hands, obeying his every touch. He changes gears again, changes his grip on the wheel, and just when Kuroo thinks they couldn’t accelerate any faster, they do, leaping forwards, twisting by Hello Kitty in a movement more akin to the pounce of a feline than the hard metal of a car.

Suddenly they’re neck and neck with the blue race car. Bokuto leans over Kuroo to stick his hand out the window, flipping the bird. Kuroo peeks at the speedometer over Bokuto’s shoulder. 110. 120. 130 kilometres per hour.

The race car slams into them, sparks flying in Kuroo’s peripheral.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Bokuto jumps back into his seat. “Chill!” He has one hand on the wheel and one on the gear shift. There’s a sharp turn ahead and Bokuto takes the chance, pulls the gear shift, accelerates, then in a flash, jerks the hand brake and the wheel at the same time. Kuroo is thrown forwards, hands stumbling forwards to brace his fall. The car snaps horizontally, _drifting_ across the bend and then Bokuto’s hands are flying everywhere and then they’re accelerating again, pulling forwards in front of the race car.

Kuroo twists in his seat, looking backwards as the car fell behind. “Bro.”

Bokuto grins back, “Brohoho?”

“Brohaha,” Kuroo laughs, throwing his head back, “That was -”

“Amazing, I know. Thank you. Thank you, keep the applause.”

Kuroo chokes on his laugher, and then he’s bending over, cheeks warm and flushed. “Awesome. That was awesome.”

Relaxing on the accelerator, the car hums beneath them, as if pleased at the praise.

“Are you free next week?”

“What?” Kuroo looks at Bokuto, “To do this?”

“Yeah,” Bokuto turns, nudging his side, “It’s so much more fun with you here. I feel like I can conquer the world.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Kuroo exhales, too soon, too eager.

Smiling, Bokuto keeps driving. The grassy fields on either side fly past them, or were they the ones flying past, chasing the night, leaping into the future. Civilisation lies forgotten behind them and after a while, it’s only them. Two boys in a fast car next to an limitless horizon. Bokuto says something else, but the wind covers his words, snatching them up. Just as well, because Kuroo could not have replied, breathless and full of feeling unmeasurable by words.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Kuroo wakes up inside the car. The car is in the middle of a some kind of crop field, long golden stalks waving in the morning wind as far as the eye can see, picking up the sunlight on their nodding heads. Leaning out of the open window, Kuroo hangs his hand out, weaving the plants between his fingers. There’s morning dew dusting the their edges that ones off onto Kuroo’s fingertips in gentle kisses. Kuroo breathes out the chill from his lungs. When he breathes in, his heart shivers.

He squeezes his eyes closed, twisting his back to loosen the muscles. Memories flash by; Bokuto doing donuts in a car park next to an abandoned factory, the car radio on high, laughing at midnight love song dedications, driving to lookouts, lying on the hood and watching the stars spin in the night sky. Bokuto’s face in the moonlight, golden eyes glinting, the way the headlights cradled his frame against the darkness as he bolted down a hill, the way he laughed when Kuroo tackled him, wrestling him down onto the grass, all bright sparkling joy.

Bokuto stirs next to him, curled up in a driver’s seat that had been pushed down flat. He was facing away from Kuroo, t-shirt tight against the muscles of his back. Kuroo swallows. Eyes following his trapezius, the muscle joining neck and shoulder, taut and tantalising close, peeking above the cotton. Then the curve of his deltoid, his biceps. There’s the sharp angle of his scapulae and the bones of his vertebrae. Kuroo stretches out a hand, just hovering over the steps of his spine, wanting, _wanting_ to dance down, to feel the warmth and his heartbeat. He wants to kiss along the lower panes of his back, inhale the scent of petrol and well-worn leather and the widest smile in the northern hemisphere. He could study this body forever, instead of textbook diagrams and lifeless cadavers spread out on metal table.. If he had Bokuto, he would top the class in anatomy with nary an effort.

His phone buzzes.

 

 

>> Sugawara:

Where are you?

 

 

Kuroo’s mind blanks. The phone goes cold in his hand. The time is 8:54am. Monday.

 _Shit -_ He hits up, banging his head against the ceiling. _Shit._

“What’s wrong?” Bokuto’s awake, rubbing his eyes.

“I have class,” Kuroo scrambles, patting himself down for his wallet. He twists around to see if his backpack is in the back seat. His laptop is back in the dorm, he can dash there before running to the lecture. One textbook is on the third shelf next to his bed, and he has sushi in the fridge. “Can you drive us back? I need to go. They take attendance. I haven’t missed a day, _fuck_ why didn’t I set an alarm?”

“Woah, woah,” Bokuto puts both hands up, “Calm down.”

“I _can’t_. “ Kuroo looks at him, eyes wide and white. “There’s a quiz at the end of the week. They’re covering relevant material today and I really need to keep -.”

“Don’t you have a friend who can pass the notes on? Just call in sick.” Bokuto raises a calm eyebrow. He leans on the steering wheel, crossing his arms and tapping out a rhythm. “That happens.”

“You don’t understand I _never_ miss a class.”

“When does it start?”

“3 minutes. But - “

Bokuto laughs, “There’s no way bro, just skip it.”

“ - I can make it to the afternoon lecture if we -”

“Isn’t it beautiful out here?” Bokuto grins at him, waving out the window. His hair is backlit golden by the sun reflecting off the crops and Kuroo can feel himself falling, falling, falling. “Since we’re already out here let’s drive some more. Come on, live a little.”

Kuroo hesitates, thinks of ten years prior, another smile in a field of green -

“It’s just a day,” Bokuto leans towards him, placing a hand on Kuroo’s knee and it’s all _heat_ -

High school nights cramming for medical school, a low lit lamp burning guilt into the evening hours -

“Just a day,” Bokuto whispers in his ear, “You always study so hard.”

The library on weekdays, the calls back home, the aversion to go back before he graduates -

“I can teach you how to drive,” Bokuto cocks his head. In his eyes, something is burning, neither expectation or hope, but something else entirely, a challenge, an anger, a stubbornness that cannot be defined. Kuroo catches himself looking, staring, searching - resisting the urge to close the distance, lean forwards -

Bokuto grins, and Kuroo is lost.

Outside, the wind sings.

 

* * *

 

>>Kuroo:

Sorry man, I think I’m sick. Can you email me your notes, just for today?

 

>>Sugawara:

??!!! No worries! Get well soon!!

 

* * *

 

This was the second mistake.

* * *

Kuroo bangs on the door, “Come on Bokuto, what are you doing? Washing your underwear?”

“Fuck off,” Bokuto laughs, “what if I am?”

Kuroo presses his forehead against his fist, “Do it later bro. I need to take a dump.”

It is noon and the sun is at the highest peak, pelting down its autumnal dryness. His sweat is sticky against the nape of his neck. They had found a dingy petrol station along the empty highway with an even dingier bathroom attached to the back. But it was the only toilet for miles and Kuroo has enough conscience not to do his business on someone’s farmland. His stomach growls. They’re only breakfast was the obligatory packet of chips they bought in order to gain the right to use the bathroom..

The door swings open, and Bokuto strides how, considerably more refreshed than how Kuroo feels.

“Did you seriously wash your underwear?”

“No,” Bokuto is swinging something in his hands, Kuroo squints - “But I did take it off.”

Kuroo pretends to gag behind his palm, “Gross dude.”

Bokuto cackles, “Try it, it feels better than you think.”

“No thanks,” Kuroo pushes past him, hiding his flush. “Now if you excuse me…”

“By the way, I used all the toilet paper.”

“BOKUTO.”

 

* * *

 

Bokuto lets Kuroo drive, shows him when to change gears and how to feel the thrum of the engine under his fingers. Without taking his eyes off the road, Bokuto placed his hand on the inside of Kuroo’s thigh. It was too gentle to be a caress, but enough of a statement to be possessive. It was warm and heavy, and when Kuroo closed his eyes, it was all he could feel. No sound through his ears, or leather against the pads of his fingers. Only the heat emanating from Bokuto’s hand through his jeans.

They continue driving until they hit the ocean, passing a worn sign that yells _Welcome to Isumi_ in colourful block letters. The beach is mostly empty, children at school and workers in their buildings. There’s a few toddlers squatting in the tide with pink buckets, trying to pick out cockles in the damp sand with their grandparents. They join them, rolling their pants up to their knees and dipping their toes in the cold water. Bokuto hollers when a particularly high wave hits and Kuroo laughs, kicking the back of his knees with his soggy feet. The children squeal with them, and Bokuto throws them up by their armpits, raising them high above the waves until they’re reduced to a mess of giggles. They then try to toss their cockles into the bucket from further and further away, doing overhand throws, dump shots, trick shots backwards, from beneath their legs as the children clap with delight.

When the buckets are overflowing and the sunset herald in farewells, they follow the scent and smoke to a street side grill, where they buy seafood skewers fresh and sizzling. The hot juice bursts in their mouths when they bite in, a symphony of meat and charcoal.

Afterwards, they sit on the sea wall, cold beer in their hands, watching the waves roll up the beach, spreading across the sand in its iridescent. This slow, powerful breathing of the ocean settles in Kuroo’s heart like his own exhalations. Once in a while, a wave rises tall enough to catch the sun behind the houses, washed in a warm orange before it falls, diving into blue foam.

Bokuto pulls out his cigarettes. “Want one?”

“Nah.”

Bokuto shrugs and lights up. He lifts the cigarette in front of him, like an offering to the force of nature before them. Both of them watch the smoke rise up, wavering, lingering imperceptibly, like a cloud, or a dream just before waking. Taking shape for a few seconds before dissolving into invisibility, lost to the air. Kuroo looks back at the sea. They seem to watch this scene forever, and time seems to pass equally as slow, only marked by the sips Kuroo takes from his bottle and the rising waterline on the shore. The wind is cool, a young winter wind that rushes through the seams in his jacket, sending him into a shiver that simmers into a satisfied smile.

“Why do you try so hard?”

“Hm?” Kuroo looks over at Bokuto, who is leaning back on the palm of a hand, golden eyes fixed on the horizon.

“With university. I always see you studying. You take it so seriously, don’t get it.”

Kuroo blinks, “I just want to do well.”

“Why?” He sounds almost petulant.

“Why not?”

“It stresses you,” Bokuto eyes flick over “It’s expensive. You pay for people to tell you what to know, what to do, and how to do it. When you graduate, its the same thing all over again. It means nothing.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, Kuroo measures his words before releasing them, “I want save lives. In order to do that, I need to be a good doctor. That’s why I study.”

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

Kuroo hesitates, “Yeah, since I was ten.”

“Why?”

 

_A summer’s day. Long grass up to his chest, the sound of laughter._

_Silence._

 

Shaking his head, Kuroo sighed, “What kid doesn’t want to save lives.” Bokuto opens his mouth, but Kuroo jumps in, “What about you? What did you want to be?”

Bokuto chews his lip, “Police Officer. Always thought they were pretty cool. Protect the people.”

Kuroo smiles, “I can totally see you being one. Dressed up in uniform, standing on that platform in the middle of Shibuya intersection, waving at the cars while wearing white gloves, blasting your whistle - ”

Bokuto swats at his shoulder, causing a smattering of beer to splatter out of the bottle, cold droplets kissing the open skin on Kuroo’s knee. “Stop stop, I’ll be cooler than that.”

“- Helping old ladies across the road, directing those yellow-hatted school kids, saving high school girls from perverts -“

Bokuto’s laugh punches the air, “I wanted to catch criminals. Rush in guns blazing like bam, bam, _bam._ Tokyo Metropolitan’s here. You’re under arrest.” He shoots finger guns at the sea, imaginary bullets flying in graceful arcs.

“Attention all robbers. Officer Koutarou’s on the scene. Please raise your hands and surrender quietly,” Kuroo raises a cupped hand to his face, pretending to speak into a walkie-talkie. He grins.

“Hands up,” Bokuto whispers as he swivels around, one hand curling around Kuroo’s wrist. “Both hands up.” Slowly, he reaches around Kuroo for his other wrist and suddenly they are chest to chest, Bokuto leaning forward on his knees, golden eyes to grey, nose to nose. They tumble down together, and Kuroo stops breathing. Bokuto is staring intently at him, pressing their foreheads together and the space they share is _too close, too close, too close_ -

Kuroo’s eyes are too wide but Bokuto’s are hooded as he traces his cheek, falls down and then it’s mouth to mouth and the roar of the waves breaking on the shore. Both their lips are chapped from the cold and there’s yesterday’s stubble on the jaw that Kuroo cups but the romance is raw and real and revealing and everything that causes his heart to twist in painful reckoning.

When Bokuto rises, Kuroo chases and then their breaths are mingling, lips to lungs and lungs to evening air and they kiss and hold each other like something is breaking apart. Kuroo tugs the warm body above him close and thinks, that if God gave him a moment to immortalise into his eternity, it would be this, this and this and this.

**Author's Note:**

> A particular song that I've looped while writing is [Golden Leaves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ytmLIv4TrUs) by Passenger


End file.
